


just a boy, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love him

by draftlottery



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Getting Together, Help, I Watched Notting Hill Too Many Times, I'm Sure Jared Bednar Is a Nice Guy but I Love LEM, Inaccurate World Cup Of Hockey Results, Journalist AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8503270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draftlottery/pseuds/draftlottery
Summary: Matt loves reporting on the Avalanche -- it's basically his dream job. Tough shit that through the job, he's met his dream guy, and it's not like anything's going to come out of it. So maybe he and Gabe did make out at the end of last season, but come on, Matt's been through the ordeal of quitting hockey because of who he is -- he's pretty sure he knows how this story ends.





	

**Author's Note:**

> wow!! hello! welcome to a) hockey big bang b) my first-ever fic on ao3 c) this crazy dumb au that literally started because i was overdue for a school paper assignment! #cute 
> 
> thank you firstly to my amazing artist!!! emily!! wow!!! the drawings truly made me weep the day before posting...everything is emotion. thank you for putting up with my lateness. her beautiful, beautiful art can be found here: http://ninjaomelet.tumblr.com/post/152897441846/just-a-boy-standing-in-front-of-a-boy-asking-him. thank you to my betas (amanda, laila, MEL!!) for reading this dumbass story before it was even done!! cool!!! also to hailey for commiserating w me about journalism look for your shoutout. and thanks to everyone on my twitter timeline for pity-liking my panic tweets, l o l 
> 
> a couple notes:  
> 1\. i wrote the beginning before wcoh finished. please let me have my wcoh results. this is an au. good bye.  
> 2\. i've never been to pepsi center or colorado at all, lol. i plan to, solely because of the airport, but i apologize if my building infrastructure makes zero sense. oops  
> 3\. i'M SORRY!! I SWEAR I'M OKAY WITH JARED BEDNAR!!! I JUST WROTE THE BEGINNING BEFORE HE WAS NAMED and also, Old Hockey Men are my brand. pls, goodbye  
> 4\. pay no attention to the jo drouin behind the curtain.....#myson  
> 5\. OH!! a fun note(s) about the food places? i randomly picked tag burger bar from a list of fun denver restaurants and then gabe and tyson did a facebook live chat or whatever and confirmed they eat there!!! i spilled water all over a library floor!!!! additionally i am 17 so if the bar description makes no sense, forgive me  
> 6\. i love chad wilson. y'all.....................chad wilson will return. coming to theaters next spring 
> 
> anyway! please enjoy this attempt at...who even knows. it has been a lot of fun and i love the avs. 
> 
> title is from notting hill, because i'm a fucking cliche.

Somehow, the Pepsi Center seems like it’s changed a lot over the four months since Matt’s last been here. To be clear, it really hasn’t; the glass still sparkles bright in the sharp sunlight as he parks in the lot, and the rocks clustered around the Pepsi symbol in the grass certainly haven’t moved. They’re still there, solid, real, practically rooted to the earth around them. 

 

Matt swallows down his jealousy and gets out of the car. 

 

He doesn’t take off his sunglasses as he walks in, savors the anonymity for a little bit longer. It’s not like he isn’t aware of the number of unread emails in his inbox, or the fact that the little red number next to his iMessage icon keeps ratcheting up day by day. He’s got an automatic message set on his email, and nobody professional would text him, anyway. Four of the past dozens, at least, are from the cute vet tech who had pushed up the sleeves of his scrubs and told Matt not to worry, that he totally understood Matt’s weird codependency with his dog and would absolutely send him daily updates on Paisley’s well-being. 

 

After pressing the “up” button on the elevator, he does take his sunglasses off and tuck them into the collar of his shirt before pulling his phone out, refreshing his work email inbox. He doesn’t even get to read the first email, though, before he feels a hand drop to his shoulder. 

 

“Thank you for your email,” Joe Sakic -- _Joe Sakic_ \-- says, reading from his own iPhone. “Unfortunately, I am currently on sabbatical. Please send any Avalanche news to one of my fellow reporters at The Denver Post. Have a great summer!” 

 

“Hi, Mr. Sakic,” Matt replies, trying to sound mostly admonished at his own words being rattled off to him by a hockey legend. To be fair, he does feel sort of ashamed of himself, and doesn’t get much respite as the elevator takes its sweet time starting its descent. 

 

Joe makes a face in response that really doesn’t befit his aforementioned status as a hockey legend. “Matt. I swear I tell you every time I see you not to call me that.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the motion stretching the Avs logo on his polo. “Are you finally back in the land of the living?” 

 

“I didn’t join the walking dead,” Matt mutters, shifting his bag on his shoulder. He’s suddenly worried he forgot a pencil. “I took a summer off.”

 

“This isn’t high school, you don’t get summers off,” Joe says matter-of-factly. “Plus, I had to field questions from the strangest places about where you were. And you _know_ I hate fielding questions, there’s a reason you hate interviewing me.” 

 

Matt splutters a little as the doors _ding_ open. “I don’t hate interviewing you, that’s ridiculous.” He scrunches his nose as he steps in, pressing the “three” button before Joe presses “five.” “What places, if I’m allowed to ask?” 

 

“Oh, you know,” Joe replies, as if he thinks Matt really does know, before continuing. “Our captain was a little worried about you. I mean, you did seem to fall off the edge of the earth.” 

 

“I was in _Haliburton_.” 

 

“Same difference.” Joe’s voice wavers with a barely withheld irreverent laugh before he grows serious again. “When you see him, I don’t think an apology about ignoring his texts would go amiss.” 

 

Matt can’t believe he’s being lectured about his texting skills by someone two decades his senior. Maybe he really was behind the times, technologically. But on the other hand, he had set up that automatic email response with only minor frustration and hadn’t deleted all of his outbox in the process, just most of it, so maybe he was getting better. 

 

“He should’ve been getting ready for the World Cup,” Matt mumbles as the two changes to three in the LED display. Gabe should have been doing anything other than worrying about Matt’s whereabouts, like they were -- like they were -- anything more than just, a professional hockey player and the beat reporter who asked him the same canned questions after every game. Come _on_. 

 

He’s not expecting the annoyed noise Joe makes at just the mere reference of the tournament, but can’t help but laugh a bit at the reaction. “Don’t mention the World Cup to him,” Joe advises. “Nobody knew Sweden would tank that hard. Believe me, I’ve had to listen to him complain enough, and when you add Peter telling me that the entire tournament didn’t even mean anything and shouldn’t have happened --” he cuts himself off, shakes his head. “I’d be more than happy if we never talked about it again.” 

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Matt assures him, but can’t help adding on. “I’m just glad I wasn’t the only one getting harassed in Swedish over the summer.” 

 

Joe gives him a look that translates fairly easily into a message that he won’t even deign to address that comment. The number display changes to three, and the elevator pauses as the doors recalibrate to open. “Oh, and for the record,” Joe says, “About that fancy email response of yours. I didn’t _want_ to give breaking news to any of your fellow reporters at the Post. There’s a reason we always want you here, covering our beat in the room.” 

 

Matt laughs again. “Yeah, because I know icing from an Icee, and nobody else on staff does.” 

 

“Sure, there’s that,” Joe says. “But the guys like you. The guys trust you.” 

 

The doors slide open, and Matt’s still stuck staring at Joe. “Um,” he says, sticking out an arm to prevent the doors from closing again. “Thank you. Mr. Sakic. Uh -- Joe,” he amends, “That. Means a lot.” 

 

“You can repay me for telling you the truth by going out there and writing the first half-decent story anyone’s written about the team since you left in April,” Joe tells him, and Matt just shakes his head, steps out into the hallway. 

 

He stands there in silence for a good couple of seconds after the doors close before adjusting the strap of his bag and taking a deep breath. There was no reason for him to be _nervous_. It was just. A bunch of guys. A bunch of hockey guys, but hockey guys he knew, and who knew him, and. Who trusted him, apparently. 

 

Not that he didn’t know that already, about one certain hockey guy, at least, but. It was still nice to hear. Matt isn’t about to turn down Joe Sakic pumping his journalistic tires. Especially when he felt like he was about to walk into an active battlefield -- he needs the strength, okay? 

 

The second he peers into the room, though, he kind of forgets why he’d been tamping down butterflies in the first place. Nate’s laying half on, half off the couch, an Xbox controller next to his head on the floor, red and blue HUF socks -- classy -- up in the air. Tyson, next to him, is taking up the rest of the couch, his own controller forgotten in favor of texting one-handed. With the other hand, he was furtively reaching into a bag of Doritos that were most certainly not on his late-September meal plan. Iginla’s the first one to see Matt, glancing up from where he’s looking at some scribbled notes at the table, and the smile that crosses his face is too infectious for Matt to stomp down on his own. “Hey, must be hockey season,” Jarome calls, gives a half wave. 

 

Tyson whips his head around and Nate gracefully slides all the way onto the floor in an effort to sit up to see who Jarome’s talking to. “Hey, Matty D’s here,” Tyson crows, dropping his phone to the floor and standing on the couch, stepping over the back. “Dude, where have you _been_?” 

 

“You know, around,” Matt says vaguely, returning Tyson’s half hug a second before he’s crushed in a hug that is definitely not half of anything as Nate catches up. “Hey, Mac.” 

 

“We missed you this summer, man,” Nate replies once he’s released Matt and Matt can breathe again. “World Cup! You missed us crushing it!” 

 

Matt laughs. “You mean I missed _you_ crushing it, congratulations.” 

 

Nate makes a hand gesture that seems to be trying to communicate the fact that he’s totally over winning the World Cup, but mostly fails. Matt’s about to chirp him for that when he looks up over Nate’s shoulder and makes eye contact with his primary reason of avoiding Denver all summer. 

 

He opens his mouth to say something -- anything, honestly -- but the words stick in his throat as Gabe walks over, Team Sweden jacket unzipped over his Avs shirt. “Hey, we didn’t know you were gonna be here,” he says, offering Matt a blinding smile. 

 

 _I missed you_ presses up against Matt’s teeth as he tries to smile back, but what he manages to say isn’t that at all. “Yeah, decided I’d check to make sure none of you had injured yourselves terribly over the summer. That would suck.” 

 

Gabe starts to say something, but Tyson cuts him off, swinging an arm over Nate’s shoulder. “Well, Mac _is_ injured, actually.” 

 

“Stop it,” Nate mutters, even as dreading concern floods somewhere in Matt’s chest. He isn’t sure when he got so attached to this team, but clearly absence had made the heart grow fonder. “I am _not_.” 

 

“What’s wrong?” Matt presses, and Nate just rolls his eyes, shoves first at Tyson and then at Gabe, who’s started to laugh at all of this. 

 

Tyson steps away from Nate, out of shoving range, before throwing one hand dramatically over his heart and the other over his eyes. “He has a _broken heart_.” 

 

“I _don’t_!” Nate argues, shoves at him again, and then they’re just pushing each other back and forth. “ _Stop_ , Ty, you _suck_.” 

 

Matt gives Gabe a flat look, and gets an identical one right back like they’re both in complete disbelief that they’re dealing with a team of puppies. “So MacKinnon’s not hurt.” 

 

Gabe shakes his head. “He’s just moping because he’s gotten to hang out with his boyfriend all the time for like a month and now he’s back in Tampa.” 

 

Matt wrinkles his nose, half out of fondness for the scuffle still going on to his left, half in sympathy. “Oh. That sucks.” 

 

“Too much of a good thing,” Gabe acknowledges, and then shrugs. “I mean. Personally I’d rather have that than none of the good thing, you know?” 

 

“If having the good thing makes sense,” Matt says, feels too stiff. 

 

Gabe gives him a look like he doesn’t really believe him. “It’s worth it,” he says, finally, after a long pause, and Matt’s chest feels like it’s echoing. _Worth it. Worth it._

 

“Hey, we gotta go,” Jarome calls, standing. “The first day of practice with a new coach.” 

 

There’s a mad scramble then, to grab bags and shoes and head out toward the locker room. Jarome shakes Matt’s shoulder a bit as he passes him, gives him a wide smile, and Nate crushes him in yet another hug. Tyson goes so far as to grab his face and say “You, me, the fuckin’ TAG. No excuses.” He finishes this up patting Matt’s cheeks too hard and laughing loudly when Matt swats at him. 

 

“You can’t eat those burgers,” Matt protests. “Or those chips.” 

 

“Me and my Doritos were never here,” Tyson informs him and sweeps out of the room. 

 

Matt watches him go, waves when he turns back around for a second and then trips forward, hot on Nate’s heels. He turns and jumps a bit, is only a little embarrassed at the way his hand flies up to his chest. “God, you scared me. I thought you’d gone with everyone, you have to practice, I don’t want to make you late on the first--”

 

“Why wouldn’t you call me back?” Gabe demands, evidently not interested in all of Matt’s lame attempts at small talk. “After. I called and I texted and I left messages.” 

 

“You shouldn’t have my number,” Matt says, faintly. 

 

Gabe gives him an exasperated look. “Matt. You _gave_ me your number.” Matt puts his hands up in front of his chest, like he’s having to physically defend himself from this fact. 

 

“I was being stupid,” he starts. “That’s so unprofessional of me, I shouldn’t have.” He had written it on a Post-It note, stuck it to Gabe’s stall like they were in high school, or something, had been too nervous to actually just tell Gabe that he should text him. 

 

Gabe leans against the back of the couch, crosses his arms over his chest. It’s a good look for him, Matt notices, because regardless of the World Cup, Gabe’s still summer-strong, his shoulders wide enough that his shirt and jacket enough that the seams are visibly stretching a little. Gabe is the most distracting person Matt knows, honestly. “If that’s unprofessional, I don’t even want to know what your editors would say about you --”

 

“ _You_ kissed _me_ ,” Matt points out, wants so badly to stomp his foot, but. Talk about unprofessional. 

 

“Damn right,” Gabe says, smug about it, _bastard_. “But you kissed me back.” 

 

There’s no arguing that; it had been right after the end of their season -- their godawful, disappointing season, just missing the last wildcard spot, having to wrap it up in April with five straight losses to close the year. All the reporters around Matt had gone straight to Gabe after the last time, like sharks closing in on the first drop of blood they’ve seen in weeks. Four people had started saying their questions at the same time, and Gabe had looked so overwhelmed that Matt had lied, said that the Post had worked something out with management for them to get the first interview, had led Gabe out of the scrum into the hallway, into an abandoned warm-up room. The lights were off, but dull sunlight was streaming in through the dusty window high on the wall, and the light painted a streak across Gabe’s face for just a moment before catching in his hair as he stepped forward toward Matt. Everything was still for a moment. 

 

They’d crashed into each other a moment later, Gabe’s lips chapped and warm against Matt’s, and he’d felt Gabe’s fingers hovering, hesitant, over Matt’s dress shirt. That hesitancy was lost as soon as Matt had grabbed at Gabe’s shirt, feeling like the floor had crumbled away beneath him. Gabe’s hands were solid and strong at Matt’s waist, and they’d just stayed like that, close, even after they’d broken apart a bit, and Matt had tilted his head back and breathed as Gabe dropped his forehead to Matt’s shoulder. “It wasn’t the right season,” Matt had whispered into Gabe’s hair, and Gabe’s shoulders had shaken half with laughter and half with something else they didn’t talk about, even after Gabe stepped back, rubbed at his eyes, and laughed again, weak and wavering, told Matt that it wasn’t fair for the captain to hide from the media any longer when they were probably ripping the other guys apart. 

 

And then Matt had gone home, back to his apartment, and realized what a fucking stupid thing he had just done, and had done something that was probably way higher up on the stupid scale. He had packed a duffel bag and flown up to Canada on the next morning’s red-eye. 

 

“Don’t say you shouldn’t have done that,” Gabe says, interrupting Matt’s reverie of last season. He laughs, but it sounds forced. “Like. If it was that bad, you could have just said.”

 

“It wasn’t,” Matt says, and his throat’s dry, suddenly, his hands too empty. “It. It was good.” 

 

Gabe raises his eyebrows. “It was good,” he agrees, “So. What gives?” 

 

“You’re a professional hockey player,” Matt says, slowly, like he’s trying to make himself understand it, too. “You play professional hockey, and I write about it. We _can’t_ \--” he says, in response to the aborted motion Gabe makes, like he’s a second away from throwing his hands into the air in frustration. “We can’t be involved like that, Gabe. We just, I can’t do that.” 

 

“You can,” Gabe argues. “You can, you just don’t want to. Why, ‘cause if you dump me you think you won’t get to cover the locker room, or something? I don’t have that kind of power, Matt.” 

 

Matt starts to say something, then does a double-take, tilts his head. “ _I_ wouldn’t dump _you,_ what the -- are you crazy?” 

 

“Don’t do that, you look like you should be on your dog’s Instagram,” Gabe replies. 

 

“You follow my dog’s Instagram?” 

 

“Whatever,” Gabe says hastily, “That’s not important. Anyway, I couldn’t even if I wanted to, I don’t like, make all the decisions for the Avs.” 

 

“You basically got Patrick Roy fired,” Matt points out. 

 

Gabe makes a face. “Okay, only ‘cause he was yelling at my guys and being a shit head.” 

 

“Sure, but--”

 

“I don’t make _all_ the decisions,” Gabe reaffirms. “I mean--”

 

That’s when Tyson comes back in, waddling a little in his skates. “Dude, the coach _you_ basically picked out is wondering where the fuck you are, and I’m so not getting bagskated on the first day back ‘cause you can’t figure your shit out and your flirt game’s weak as shit. Hurry _up._ ” 

 

“The coach you picked out?” Matt asks, and the look on Gabe’s face is almost laughable before he remembers what they’d just been talking about. Gabe looks at him and then at Tyson and then back at Matt, and then shakes his head, visibly deflating a little. “Hey,” Matt says, as Gabe starts to walk by him. He clears his throat. “I mean. You’re. Right, kind of.” Gabe’s eyes light up and Matt rushes to amend his statement. “I mean -- not that right, but -- this conversation isn’t over.” 

 

“I knew it wasn’t,” Gabe says, all sunny smiles again, hip checks Matt so lightly it makes something in Matt’s chest squeeze with fondness as he follows Tyson out and then jogs past him in his slides. “Whatever, he loves me, so it’s totally fine,” he calls over his shoulder. 

 

Tyson stops his awkward shuffle out for a second to turn around, raise a hand to point at Matt. “Dude. TAG. For real.” 

 

“I know,” Matt says, “I’ll pencil you in.” 

 

“On Saturday, so we can do the chalk drawings,” Tyson replies, like he’s a man possessed by his seriousness for chalk drawings. 

 

Matt just rolls his eyes. “ _Clearly_. Who do you think I am?” 

 

Tyson smiles so big his eyes scrunch up. “We’re so glad you’re back, dude,” he says, earnestly, then shuffles back down the hall. 

 

Probably at some point Matt will have to get used to various members of the Colorado Avalanche saying nice things to him, but he’s not at that point yet, so he just stands there for a moment. Then he shakes his head and goes down the hall, too, turning before the locker room door to go right out to the ice, intending on just sitting on the bench and taking notes about the first practice of the season. 

 

That plan goes to shit basically right away. Another thing Matt will have to get used to is seeing guys whose pictures he has up on his wall at home, but dealing with Patrick last season and the one before that had basically shattered his lifelong-Avs-fan rose-colored glasses. 

 

Peter Forsberg, though, is a whole different story, and Matt comes to a dead stop in the hall, opens his mouth and then closes it before just saying, “ _You’re_ \-- uh. I’m -- why?” 

 

The finger he gets pointed in his direction is admittedly just a little more threatening than Tyson’s. “I have to do this for _two_ weeks,” Peter starts. “Okay? Two weeks and Joe says I can go home and not deal with _this_.” For some reason Matt’s brain won’t stop chanting hockey facts about Peter Forsberg, all mostly irrelevant, like that he won the Art Ross and the Hart in the same year and is now lecturing Matt. _Kind of a step down,_ Matt thinks, but Peter’s not even done. “So if the captain of the team I have to coach skates into the glass and knocks himself out because you’re there, I maybe have to stay for more than two weeks, and I _swear_ \--”

 

“He’s not gonna do that,” Matt says, because apparently he now interrupts Hall of Famers as a profession. “He’s -- I won’t even, I’m just sitting there.” 

 

Peter makes a noise like he doesn’t really believe him. “No skating into the glass.” 

 

“Absolutely none,” Matt reassures him. “I’ll like, curl up into a ball so nobody knows who I am.” 

 

He’s seriously going to die. Peter just shakes his head and says, “Whatever you have to do, this can’t be over soon enough,” and turns around to push through the doors. 

 

“It’s great to meet you, Mr. Forsberg,” Matt says, to himself. “I have your jersey up in my room. I’m probably going to take it down now that you think I’m a total idiot, but that’s just how my luck’s going today. Also, pretty sure you’re only doing this because of a weird nationalistic urge to protect Gabe from himself and --” 

 

“Who are you talking to,” Joe says, walking up from behind him. “Don’t you have stuff to do?” 

 

“Your -- he -- yelled at me,” Matt says, not even acknowledging that he’d just been rambling to himself. 

 

“He does that,” Joe agrees. “Are you going to go in or not?” 

 

“I guess,” Matt mumbles, following him into the rink and just barely resisting the urge to put his bag between his face and the glass. 

 

Practice is sort of similar to the practices Matt had seen last year, and at the same time, totally different. Maybe it’s because it’s September and the Avs don’t have any numbers in the loss column to weigh them down, but all the guys seem excited to be there. Matt mostly goes unnoticed, even though every so often Joe, who for some reason has just sat down with Matt to watch, bursts into applause like every hockey dad Matt has ever met. 

 

He’s just filled a page in his notebook when Peter blows his whistle a few times and the players all take a knee behind the blue line, talking for a couple minutes before starting to skate off o the locker rooms in small groups. 

 

“You’re leaving now?” Joe asks, without looking at Matt. This allows Matt to make an annoyed face that he’d probably die before making to Joe Sakic’s face. “You don’t have to, you know.” 

 

“I _know,_ ” Matt mumbles, twisting the lead of his pencil back in. “I wasn’t going to, anyway. As long as I don’t get lectured by the guest coach, again.” 

 

Joe makes a noise like he’s had it up to here, although with Matt or with Peter, Matt’s really not sure. Probably both, to be honest. “I’m really hoping Gabe will be as hopeless as we know he is in front of him,” he says, and then shakes his head like he didn’t really mean to say it at all. 

 

“So that he’ll stay,” Matt fills in, gets a _look_. “For the team,” he amends. 

 

“For the team,” Joe repeats. 

 

Matt nods, sagely, feeling a little too close to high school locker gossip for comfort. “Clearly.” 

 

“I don’t have to talk about this with you,” Joe points out, which, fair point, he really doesn’t. But he kind of already has, which means Matt is already forming a parent trap plan in his head. Oops. 

 

~*~

The rest of the week progresses in pretty much the same way; the Avs practice, Matt watches practice, Matt avoids Gabe, Matt listens to Nate whine about his romantic drama. The usual. 

 

For what it’s worth, he’s really good at the last thing, and really shitty at the thing before that. He may also not be trying as hard as he could, but that’s beside the point. 

 

For example: Wednesday, before practice. The guys are working out all morning, so it’s not really Matt’s fault that when he runs into Gabe in the hall he makes a really embarrassing noise. Sweaty Gabriel Landeskog is only basically every single person’s wet dream, alright. He’s not alone in this. 

 

He’s pretty sure the hand Gabe puts on his shoulder to lightly steer him toward the wall as Tyson and Nate run through the hall -- Nate holding a hula hoop aloft, and honestly, being a professional athlete just doesn’t seem that hard -- will leave a dark spot on his dress shirt from how much the blonde is _dripping,_ God, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

 

“You’ve been busy,” Gabe says, not even close to a question. “After practice, it’s like you just disappear.” 

 

Matt wrinkles his nose. “Not true,” he protests, “I’ve been here.”

 

“Where?” 

 

“Around,” he says, defensively, then his hand moves of its own accord, points a finger against Gabe’s chest. “You’ve been busy, not me.” 

 

Gabe just looks at him for a second, blue eyes wide open in surprise, before he bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous. I’ve been busy with hockey, I’m always here.”

 

“Well same, basically,” Matt says. “I actually am busy now, though. Will you walk with me?” 

 

“Always,” Gabe says, like that’s casual, like he doesn’t make it even less casual than it already was as he drops a hand lightly to Matt’s lower back. “Busy how, though?” 

 

Matt tries to shift his bag on his shoulder without jarring Gabe’s hand. He fails, but Gabe’s fingers only hover over him for a second before the warmth returns. “I have to ask Peter about how you guys are doing, so I’m bringing you with me as a human shield.” 

 

“Journalistic integrity is dead,” Gabe mutters as they get to the elevator, but when Matt looks over his shoulder at him, there’s this fond, quiet smile on his face that makes Matt’s throat close up just a little. 

 

Luckily, Matt’s frankly brilliant plan does work, but sort of because he inadvertently gets a second human shield by telling Joe that he doesn’t have to get up, that’s fine. This works to his benefit because whenever he asks a question that particularly bores Peter, at least he has someone to make a face at who is allowed to return it. 

 

Matt eliminates a few questions that he can ask the assistant coaches anyway just to end Peter’s obvious torture a few minutes earlier, and has to smother his laugh as Gabe’s excited wave goodbye to the coach is returned with just an exhausted hand lift. He would laugh as soon as the door closes behind them, but Gabe looks honest-to-God offended and so he lets it slide. 

 

“I don’t get why he’s grumpy,” Gabe mumbles, because only Gabriel Landeskog would call living legend Peter Forsberg grumpy. 

 

“He needs something good in his life,” Matt guesses. 

 

Gabe’s mouth drops. “We are the the good things in his life! Go Avs!” 

 

Matt waves that notion away. “I’m going to parent trap them if it’s the last thing I do,” he says, extremely seriously. Matchmaking, in his opinion, is not something to fuck with, even if one is matchmaking two actual hockey legends. Especially then, actually. 

 

“Please don’t,” Gabe whines, “That’s so, just, I do not want to know about Peter, doing that.” 

 

“Being in love?” Matt demands, throwing a hand over his heart. 

 

Gabe makes a face. “How about you try parent trapping yourself, first,” he suggests. His voice stays light, but there’s something in his expression that feels pretty close to a gut punch to Matt. “Anyway, they barely even need the parent trapping, okay.” 

 

Matt gapes, throws his hands into the air in exasperation. “What does that mean,” he explodes as Gabe waltzes away, laughing. “You can’t just -- Gabriel!”

 

“Gotta skate, sorry,” Gabe calls, not sounding very sorry at all, actually. “Bye, Matty! Good luck!” 

 

“Dick,” Matt says, loudly. “You’re a dick!” And then jumps when the door to Joe’s office swings open and Peter sticks his head out. Matt suddenly very much has to get to the ice, too, thanks, so he’s just. Going to go. 

 

~*~

 

Matt isn’t quite sure how he gets roped into a team dinner, or what he initially assumes is a team dinner, because the last time he checked, he was most certainly not on the Colorado Avalanche roster. This doesn’t stop Tyson and Nate from bugging him about it incessantly, though, because what on earth could. His excuses to beg out of it become increasingly lamer, too, which really does not help his case. 

 

“You guys know I can’t keep up with you when it comes to eating,” he complains. “It just makes me feel bad about myself.” 

 

“Don’t even worry about it, though,” Nate says. “Whatever you don’t eat, you know who to call.”

 

“You are literally a human garbage disposal,” Matt says, and Nate nods, very proud of himself. 

 

“Or you could just eat like a normal person,” Tyson cuts in, as if most normal people consume the three thousand calories a day he does. Matt is almost positive about five hundred of those are from Cheeto consumption. “Anyways, you should be eating more regardless, ‘cause El Capitan is totally an ass man.” 

 

Matt chokes on his tongue just a little, rolls his eyes at Nate’s loud, “ _Ew_ , why would you,” and privately decides he’ll just lie and say he has to work Friday night. 

 

This excuse works for Tyson and Nate, but when he tries the same on Gabe at the end of the day -- at the exit to the parking lot where they pretty physically ran into each other -- he’s met with some resistance. 

 

“You have to work on a Friday night,” Gabe repeats, half incredulous, half very, very unimpressed. Matt makes an aggravated noise, shakes his head. 

 

“Listen, I’m not even on the team --”

 

“Yes you are,” Gabe retorts. 

 

Matt tries to glare, but he knows there’s next to no heat behind his look. “Anyway,” he continues, “I’m not going to be able to, like, match you guys plate for plate. Have you seen Nate eat?” 

 

“Unfortunately,” Gabe confirms. “But we basically won’t even be eating, we’re just going to Finley’s.” 

 

“Oh,” Matt says intelligently. Then he shakes his head. “Then I’m really not going, it’s kind of unfair of me to step on your team bonding time.” 

 

“Don’t tell Peter that I said this, but fuck team bonding,” Gabe replies, like he really means it. Then, even more seriously, coupled with a light hand on Matt’s elbow, like that will do anything to help Matt make a rational decision: “I want you there.” 

 

“Do you,” Matt says, too faintly to really be a question. 

 

“I want you there,” Gabe says again, and the reiteration of this frankly earth shattering statement is paired with a light squeeze of Matt’s elbow. 

 

Oh, God. He is in so, so deep. 

 

“Yeah, okay,” he hears himself say, almost like he’s underwater. Yeah, okay, because how much more professional can you even get than grabbing a couple beers with the professional sports team he covers. Really. Gabe’s smile makes the moment of hesitation seem pretty ridiculous, to be honest, but Matt still clears his throat, says, “But I probably won’t drink, you know? Professionalism.” 

 

“Professionalism,” Gabe echoes, but he’s still beaming. “See you tonight to be professional.” 

 

It’s not until Gabe is halfway out the door that Matt calls a belated thanks after him, which is met with yet another blinding smile and a small wave, too. 

 

It’s no wonder he has to take a moment to collect himself, as one does, his reverie interrupted only when he’s tapped on the shoulder. He jumps. 

 

“Did you know loitering is illegal,” Joe says flatly. 

 

“I’m not loitering, you’re loitering,” Matt snaps back, because apparently he’s still in too much shock to figure out comebacks beyond a third grade level attempt. 

 

He’s about to say something else to try and save this conversation when Peter rounds the corner, looking down at his phone. Even if Matt wasn’t, hello, an _investigative journalist,_ (or, okay, close enough), there was no way he could miss how Peter’s hand drops to Joe’s lower back as he says, “Hey, can we stop at--”

 

“So I was just telling Matt something,” Joe says, loudly, and Peter swings his hand away like Joe’s burned him. Matt’s going to scream. Or, actually, he’s going to wait until he’s in his car, alone, with the windows rolled up and Sam Hunt playing loud enough to drown out a hypothetical scream, and then scream. It’s fine. He’s got his plan all figured out. 

 

“We were talking about the legality of loitering,” Matt explains, as helpful as he can be. “Where are you two headed off to?” 

 

“Home,” Peter says, at the same time as Joe cuts in, still weirdly loud, “Nowhere.” 

 

“Right,” Matt replies, trying to keep most of the glee out of his voice. “Well, see you both Monday! Have a great weekend!”

 

He’s fully expecting an email from Joe at some point over the weekend threatening to feed him to a Zamboni, but. Holy shit. Worth it. Operation Parent Trap was seeming pretty damn unnecessary right now, and also, pretty poorly named, in hindsight. 

 

~*~

 

It probably takes him way too long to pick out what he wants to wear to the bar, especially when he considers that he’s going to be getting drinks with a bunch of hockey players. Literally whatever he wears, he won’t be the worst dressed one there. He’s got more than a slight inkling that Drouin picks out half of Nate’s clothes for him. 

 

The first set of texts he gets from Gabe -- two of the suit emojis followed by a long string of beer emojis, long enough that Matt wonders if Gabe has started in that endeavor a little early, make him laugh more than they should, probably. For the captain of a National Hockey League team, Gabe sure did text like the average high school student. Regardless, the way Gabe is treating this -- casual, normal, good -- makes him feel a lot better about the whole thing. 

 

It’s the second set of texts that convince him he made the right decision. 

 

 _Can’t wait to see you,_ the first one reads, immediately followed with, _I mean it. It’s only been like 3 hours, so I think that might sound fake. But I really mean it._

 

Then he gets a whole bunch of the emojis with grimaces, or the ones Tyson refers to solely as the yikes emoji. Good to know that even when Gabe’s trying his hardest to be serious, he’s still just, Gabe, underneath all that. 

 

He dashes off a quick, _Me too. Even though it’s been like 3 hours._ He must totally lose it for a second, because he sends a second text, too, just a heart eyes emoji. 

 

 _Don’t judge me_ Gabe fires back, and then the blue heart emoji. Okay. Probably not as serious as the red heart emoji, but still something. 

 

Matt really isn’t sure when he became the kind of person who reads way into the color of heart emojis. He wasn’t even the kind of person who believed that authors meant to have motifs and symbolism in their books in his high school English class (Matt will probably go to his deathbed still ready to fight Mr. Brown about the symbolism of weather in The Great Gatsby). Fuck. 

 

Anyway. Anyway. That’s not important right now; what’s important is making sure he’s not too discombobulated to put on matching shoes and drive to the bar, because if he doesn’t even get there, that would make all of this flirty emoji texting for naught. Which would really be a shame. 

 

When he pulls up to Finley’s Pub, he just sits in the car with the motor still running for a little bit. This isn’t, like, high school. He’s not going to prom with a girl in his calculus class he’d talked to a grand total of sixteen times all year. This is just all the guys. And Gabe. It’s fine. 

 

He’s just repeating that last sentence to himself a couple times to help psych himself up before there’s a loud tapping at the driver’s side window, jarring him out of his routine, God. 

 

“What is wrong with you,” he says, as he swings the door open. Nate just laughs and Tyson makes a face, shaking his head. 

 

“What’s wrong with _me_?” he demands, “What’s wrong with you, weirdo? Who just sits in their car talking to themselves? Weirdos, that’s who.” 

 

Matt rolls his eyes, puts his keys into his pocket, and puts his hands into the air. “Okay, I surrender, take me to your leader.” 

 

“We’ve been trying,” Nate says pathetically. 

 

There’s really no good response to that, or at least none that Matt can come up with off the top of his head, so maybe that means he does need a beer. 

 

Tyson and Nate do, indeed, take him to their leader, who totally abandons his conversation with Erik Johnson to push off the bar and meet Matt halfway to the door. “Hey, I was starting to think you got lost, or something.” 

 

“I didn’t get lost,” Matt says, too soft for Gabe to hear under the music, he thinks, but then again, Gabe is so close that maybe Matt doesn’t need to worry about that. 

 

“You want a drink?” Gabe asks, then stops, midway through turning back toward the bar. “Wait, you said you weren’t gonna, never mind. You want a Sprite, or something?” 

 

“Sprite works,” Matt answers, sits hesitantly on the stool that Gabe had been sitting in a moment before. Erik gives him a smile that mostly says _We all know you’re pathetic_ and pats his arm before getting up to wrestle Tyson away from the darts board, where he’s been knocking Nate’s thrown darts out of the air. 

 

Gabe comes back over a second later with two identical glasses, condensation going from his fingers to Matt’s as he passes one over. “Hey, you didn’t have to drink Sprite,” Matt observes as Gabe sets his down on the bartop. 

 

He’s met with a shrug. “Better for me than beer, right?” 

 

“Sure,” Matt says, and laughs as Gabe holds up his glass for Matt to clink his own against. “Cheers to Sprite.” 

 

“Cheers to Sprite!” Gabe echoes, that sweet laugh making Matt’s chest go all warm and bright and staticy. 

 

They only get halfway through the Sprites when a song comes on that Gabe wants to dance to, gives Matt overly dramatic come-hither eyes until Matt gets up to go with him. It’s fun, more fun than he thought it would be, but mostly because he’s not worried for once about people looking at him. Gabe’s looking at him, and that’s enough to make everyone else kind of fade away into a blur around the little warm sphere surrounding them. 

 

They dance to a couple of songs, take a break for a couple more to chirp Tyson about his pool skills -- he yells that if Matt knows so much, he should just jump in and play, and it’s so cliche but Gabe standing behind him as Matt lines up the cue on the green felt. 

 

“Your flirting game literally makes me wanna vom,” Tyson says eloquently, holding his beer with both hands like he’s worried it’s going to run away if he doesn’t. “You’re supposed to like, get all up behind him, Landy, you suck.” 

 

“He knows what he’s doing,” Gabe says, and cracks up when Matt does, actually, proceed to kick Tyson’s ass at pool. 

 

They’re both laughing, bright and loud, when they spill out into the parking lot, just the two of them; they take that little bubble of warmth with them, all the way to Matt’s car. 

 

Matt leans against the driver’s side door, checks his watch. “I’m usually not an old man about stuff like this,” he tries. It’s only 9:30 at night. God. 

 

“I think you probably are,” Gabe retorts, but there’s a fond smile on his face. He’s standing arm’s length away from Matt, which, in Matt’s opinion, is way too far. “Probably good that you call it a night anyway, though. I think if you would’ve won a third straight game Tyson would have cried, which would have been embarrassing for like, the whole bar.” 

 

“Agreed,” Matt laughs, and then there’s a moment of fraught silence before Gabe is stepping forward, boxing Matt in just a little against his car. He suddenly feels almost too hot, but somewhere underneath that, safe. 

 

That’s maybe why he gets two handfuls of Gabe’s jacket and pulls him closer, all the way, until Gabe’s forearms are leant up against the window and their lips are meeting, finally. 

 

 _Sprite,_ Matt thinks, dazedly, and opens his mouth without a second thought. He maneuvers them -- or, Gabe lets him maneuver them -- so that Gabe’s the one leaning against the car and Matt’s the one pressing, so happy to get to. 

 

They make out for a few more minutes after that, Matt running his hands up and down Gabe’s shirted chest and Gabe’s hands tightening around Matt’s waist in response. When they eventually break apart, Gabe stays close and they breathe the same air for a little bit. _This is good_ , Matt thinks, and then, wildly: _We can do this_. 

 

Which is, of course, when he shakes his head, hard, stepping back from Gabe as he does so. “We can’t do this.” 

 

Gabe just stares at him for a second, before letting his head drop back against the window. Matt reaches out for half a second to go to Gabe’s head, the thunk from hitting the window too much for him not to worry about, but. He drops his hand away. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have thought you were getting over this, should I.” 

 

“I’m just --” Matt starts, makes a desperate noise. “Gabe. We can’t do this.” 

 

“We can,” Gabe protests, stepping forward, his hands going to Matt’s waist again. “Matt. I want to, don’t you?” 

 

“That doesn’t matter,” Matt argues, shaking his head again when Gabe lets go of him only to throw his hands into the air in exasperation. “Gabe, I mean it, it doesn’t matter what we want, it’s not --” 

 

“It’s not what,” Gabe says. “It’s not good? It’s not great? It doesn’t feel like it should happen? Because I think it’s all of those things, actually, but maybe I’m just reading everything wrong.” 

 

Matt opens his mouth, and then closes it. When he opens it again, he knows his voice is only as soft as it is because he doesn’t want to cry. Fuck. “It’s all of that,” he says. “It is, you know it is.” 

 

“So why --” 

 

“Because I want to do this for real,” Matt says. “I want to do it for real.”

 

Gabe does that sarcastic half laugh he does whenever shit really hits the fan. “This is not real?” 

 

“ I don’t want to be something that you have to hide, or lie about. I don’t want to be something that makes you -- Sad. Ever.” 

 

Now it’s Gabe’s turn to just look at him for a moment. Then, the hands are back. “Matt. You couldn’t, do that. You know?” 

 

He shakes his head, already taking another step away. “We can’t do this. _You_ can’t do this.” 

 

Something in Gabe’s jaw sets, like right before he flies into a scrum in the third period. “I can, too.” 

 

“No --”

 

“I _can_ ,” Gabe repeats, hard. Then he’s quiet for a second, lets go of Matt’s waist to take his hands. He doesn’t meet Matt’s eyes for a second, but looks up when he starts speaking again. “Matt. This is good.” 

 

Matt just stares at him, wants to say, scream, Yes, it is, it’s so good. 

 

He yanks his hands away, shakes his head, can only say, “We can’t -- you just --” before wrestling his key from his pocket and unlocking the car. He hates that he has to see Gabe’s soft eyes as Gabe steps away from the car, lets Matt swing the door open and start to step in. “I’m really sorry,” he says, pathetic, and then closes the door behind him, has to start the car twice because his hands are shaking so bad. 

 

He sees Gabe once more, in his rearview, as he speeds out of the parking lot, and can’t get the image out of his head. Not when he drives home, not when he opens his front door, not when he finally falls asleep, like it’s all pressed up wet against his eyelids. 

 

~*~

Saturday dawns -- or more appropriately, afternoons -- warm and bright, with the sun sparkling off the puddles left from the night before. Matt wishes his mood matched the weather outside, but last night had been more appropriate, and at least the rain had finally lulled him to sleep after hours of tossing and turning. The conversation with Gabe had drained him, so it wasn’t any surprise that he startled awake at eleven-thirty, but like. Still. 

 

The mostly sleepless night is evident enough on his face and in the way that his hair is sticking up more than usual, but he does his best to look vaguely presentable before walking to the car, pressing his hand for a second against the driver’s-side door where Gabe had leant, relaxed and smiling, before Matt had royally fucked that up. He wonders if he’s imagining the warmth there, before realizing that, of course, the car was warm from being in the sun. Gabe had nothing to do with that. Matt needs to get ahold of himself.

 

He finally gets into the car to drive to TAG and meet up with Tyson. It probably says something about how seriously this sucks because not even Florida Georgia Line can make him stop thinking about how shitty the whole situation was, and like. There was no ill Florida Georgia Line couldn’t cure. 

 

He mentions this to Tyson once they’re getting ready to order at the bar, and is met with a scoff. “That’s not any dumb country band, loser. That’s beer,” Tyson corrects him, before ordering two bottles. “You want anything to eat?” 

 

Matt shakes his head, and Tyson shrugs, orders fries for himself. “You better not tell Coach,” Tyson says, trying to sound threatening. Matt really doesn’t have the heart to tell him he won’t, and really doesn’t want to get made fun of for his only run-in with Peter thus far. 

 

While they’re sitting at one of the booths, at least, Matt does a pretty good job of steering the conversation toward Tyson’s various summer adventures and his own romantic drama with the girl at the Stapleton Target, which had forced him to go into Target every day for two weeks and yet he still hadn’t exchanged a word with her. “I just don’t know, man,” he finishes, taking another drink, “Me and Nate have like, so many Target bags now. We keep buying the weirdest shit and then using self-checkout because I get too weirded out to talk to her, I don’t know.” 

 

“I want to tell you that you live my dream life,” Matt informs him. 

 

Tyson snorts. “It’s pretty sweet, I’m a Target member now, or whatever,” he agrees, and then perks up. “Hey, they’re doing the chalk outside! Let’s go _let’s go we’re gonna miss the chalk_ \--”  
“We won’t miss the chalk,” Matt mimics, then makes a frustrated noise when Tyson whips off his snapback and upends the bucket of fries into it for a more convenient to-go box. “Are you five?”

 

Tyson waves him off, grabs both beers in one huge hockey hand and is out the door before Matt can even get up. He just grabs his wallet and jacket and follows, looking around the crowd outside for a second before seeing Tyson off down the sidewalk, bartering several sticks of chalk with a girl with a huge yellow bow tying her hair back. 

 

“Are you serious,” he says, thinking better of repeating his question from before. He’s pretty sure the girl actually is about five, and wouldn’t want to offend her sensibilities as she trades two pieces of chalk for four. Tyson is a horrible negotiator. 

 

“Anyway,” Tyson says, finally, after having tested his two pieces of chalk by drawing nearly identical smiley faces next to each other. “I kind of don’t get where the problem is, Matt. Like, yeah, he seems kind of pissed, and yeah, that exit was kind of dramatic, but. Pissed and dramatic is what makes Gabe hot, right?” 

 

“Maybe to you,” Matt replies, then does a double take. “I’m sorry. You think my potential boyfriend is hot?” 

 

“I have eyes,” Tyson explains, offended, rolls them for evidence. 

 

Matt just shakes his head. He has more important things to deal with than what makes Gabe hot in Tyson’s opinion. “I don’t want to be a situation he has to deal with,” he says, and that’s it, at the heart of it. He doesn’t want to be something that Gabe has to put to the side in favor of hockey, has to try and hide so that Matt won’t accidentally interfere with anything. It’s not fair, maybe -- it’s not fair, for sure -- but. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them to try and make it work like that. There’s no way this thing between them is worth that. 

 

“First of all, don’t call yourself that, you sound like you should be on Jersey Shore,” Tyson starts. When Matt just looks at him blankly, his eyes open wide like he’s shocked Matt has no idea what he’s talking about. This can’t even be true, because Matt basically never knows what Tyson is talking about. “The Situation? From Jersey Shore?”

 

“You watch Jersey Shore?”

 

“Irrelevant,” Tyson mutters, then continues on. “Because you’re not, you know? You’re really important to him. He talks about you more than he talks about Sweden, so, like. You matter.” Matt starts to try to cut in, but Tyson shakes his head, holds up a hand. “I’m not done yet, dude,” before totally ruining his own point by reaching into his hat and pulling out a handful of fries. The next thing he says is muffled a little by that mouthful, because he’s disgusting. “That’s my secondly, anyways. You’re important to him. You matter like, a whole fucking lot, and if he says he wants to do this shit for real, he means it.” 

 

“He’s not thinking,” Matt says, fully aware he’s whining. “He’s not thinking of his career or the team or himself, his literal physical safety, Tyson, I got beat up in fucking juniors hockey ‘cause some guy said something shitty and I couldn’t fight worth a damn.” 

 

Tyson’s face suddenly goes dark, and his mouth presses into a thin, angry line. “If you remember that guy’s name, let me know, and I’ll kick his ass,” he starts. “But, like. Nobody’s gonna beat Gabe up for dating you. Nobody’s going to care.” 

 

“Ouch,” Matt says, trying for light and failing. He doesn’t believe Tyson for a second, is the thing. Gabe plays professional hockey. Nobody is out as not straight in the professional hockey league Gabe plays in. Matt’s not going to make him go through that because he’s maybe a little totally in love. He’s not selfish. 

 

“Whatever. You’re stupid,” Tyson says, helpful as always. “Maybe, try not to do that?” 

 

Matt glares. “I’m doing my best.” 

 

“But you’re clearly not, though,” Tyson argues. “Just, like. What’s that Jennifer Aniston movie? Go with it.” 

 

“I’m not Jennifer Aniston,” Matt says, and Tyson laughs. 

 

“Duh, you’re so anal, you have to be a Monica,” he replies, because apparently all Tyson does is play hockey and watch Netflix. Seriously, unhealthy. “Just. I don’t know, man. He’s treating this like it’s pretty for real. I think you’re the one who’s sucking at that.” 

 

So lunch with Tyson when Matt’s already feeling kind of shitty about himself was probably not the best decision, he decides on his way out. Tyson waves joyously at him as he waits for his Uber. Ugh. At this point, Matt was just willing to take a page out of Tyson’s book and spend the day in front of his TV, trying hard not to think about anything that made his heart or his head hurt too much. 

 

God. In way too deep. 

 

~*~

Monday morning, even on a scale of Monday mornings, ranks toward the bottom. Matt’s woken up at five-thirty by a huge crash and lays in bed for a full ten seconds, convincing himself that someone’s broken into his apartment and that he’s about to die before realizing that the sound had come from the bathroom. Upon investigation, he discovers that his shower curtain has just given up and tumbled to the tile, and after that he really can’t fall asleep again. 

 

He doesn’t have to be at the Pepsi Center until eleven to cover morning practice and get a few quotes for the preseason longform piece he’s waiting to pitch until he has enough material, so he lazes around on his phone for a while before getting up and eating more breakfast than just a to-go cup of coffee for the first time since he’s been back in Denver. 

 

At eight, though, he gets a phone call that sort of sends him into a frenzy of action, as the veterinarian’s office where Paisley stays whenever Matt’s dad is on a fishing trip calls to let him know that his dog is sick. “He should be perfectly fine in a few days, it’s just company policy to call --” the vet tech says, but of course that sends Matt to the pets section of WebMD. Then he has to call his mom to freak out about everything he’s reading on WebMD, and then she tries to distract him by asking about his life, which quite frankly is an absolute trainwreck. So then she tells him about her life, and this is maybe his penance for rarely calling home that she figures this will be their one chance to talk for a month or so and tells him every bit of book club drama that’s happened in the two weeks he’s been gone and hasn’t been immediately available to lend an ear about whether or not Cindy really baked those cookies. 

 

Glancing at the clock spurs him into action again, and he apologizes a total of nine times before finally being able to hang up and throw his bag together to run out the door. It doesn’t help that when he finally gets to the Pepsi Center, the parking lot is totally full, even though there wasn’t supposed to be that much media availability today. He has a fair walk to get to the doors, and when he walks in, the lobby is swarming with people with PRESS badges. 

 

He stops a guy he vaguely recognizes as being one of the sports reporters for the Aurora News. “Hey,” he says, “Sorry, why are there so many people here? It’s just practice.” 

 

The guy -- his badge reads _Chad Wilson_ underneath a Broncos lanyard -- snorts. “Just a practice? Uh, okay.” 

 

“It is just a practice,” Matt insists. He’s pretty sure he knows the Avs schedule better than _Chad Wilson_ , thanks. 

 

Chad shakes his head. “Yeah, but like, the press conference about Landeskog’s statement. Like, everyone’s here, even all the college papers are here, which, get these kids out of here, am I right?” 

 

Matt refrains from pointing out that the majority of the team that plays in this building could currently be in college in favor of attempting to clear up his confusion. “Landeskog’s statement?” he asks. Chad gives him a look like he truly can’t believe how stupid Matt is. “It’s been a rough morning, can you just--”

 

“Yeah, it’s,” Chad starts, pulls out a piece of paper from a blue folder he’s been holding under his arm. He reads the paper for a second before nodding. “Yeah, he says he’s going to be doing more work with You Can Play, as a member of the target audience.” He raises his eyebrows. “So, like. Everyone’s flipping their shit.” 

 

Matt just stares at Chad, feeling like his brain is trying to process this underwater. You Can Play. A member of the target audience. 

 

He remembers the glint in Gabe’s eyes on Friday night, the same one he gets whenever he’s in a corner, competing for the puck. Then he remembers how soft his eyes had gone, how they’d matched his voice just before he’d let go of Matt’s hand. 

 

“Holy fucking shit,” Matt breathes. 

 

Chad Wilson, for his part wholly oblivious to Matt’s internal conflict, nods again. “Exactly, dude. It’s fucking crazy.” He pulls out his phone, glances at the time. “Presser’s gonna start in like five. It’s gonna be swarmed, see you there.” 

 

As Chad walks away, Matt just stays rooted to where he’s standing for a good two minutes, getting shoved a few times. He barely even feels those, too caught up in his own thoughts to focus. He can only hear himself saying, _I want to do this for real,_ can only remember that split second after they had kissed, can only think about Gabe, so put out, so lost. _Is this not real_. 

 

Fuck. Fuck. This was maybe -- a little too real, almost. There’s a hollow, scared feeling at the pit of his stomach, because this is what he had been most scared of, all these reporters running around to pepper Gabe with questions about something that Matt, who isn’t even a professional athlete, isn’t always comfortable talking about with strangers. 

 

Well. Maybe second most scared of. There’s something underneath the hollow feeling, little flutters, because it’s scary, if Gabe thinks Matt is worth this. That Gabe maybe really wants to do this. Apparently, even after the total shitshow that had been last night. 

 

The flutters finally convince Matt to succumb to the flow of reporters and go down the hall. The closer he gets, the more resolved he is -- if Gabe wants this, if Gabe thinks this is worth it. Well. 

 

Matt’s been on board the whole time, in his heart of hearts. For him, this has always been for real. 

 

The room is totally full by the time he manages to make his way in, every seat taken and a crush of people at the back of the room. Somehow he manages to elbow his way in, narrowly avoiding pushing over a camera on a tripod. He knows he gives himself away as Canadian in five seconds, apologizing profusely to everyone around him, even the people who are glaring at him. 

 

He doesn’t bother trying to be in the front of the crowd; he’ll be behind the chairs anyway, and to be totally honest, he really doesn’t want Gabe to see him. Matt just wants to watch this happening. 

 

The second the door opens and Gabe enters the room, reporters start calling his name, each trying to out-yell the others. Joe’s there, of course, sitting down next to Gabe after squeezing his shoulder for a moment and then holds up one hand. The room falls as silent as it can be, just pens scribbling and cameras snapping left in the charged air. Joe points at one reporter, who stands, holding his pad of paper and clicking his pen in and out. 

 

“So, we’ve all read the statement,” he starts, “announcing that you’re gay now--”

 

“Now?” Gabe asks, and he’s got that smile on his face that means he really doesn’t think whatever he’s reacting to is that funny, but the only thing left to do is laugh. “I didn’t just wake up and decide, you know?” 

 

The reporter looks confused. “But it says--” 

 

“Bisexuality is a thing,” Gabe says, and looks like he wants to say more before Joe waves a hand in his direction and interrupts. 

 

“Google,” he says, “It’s free and easy.” He points to another reporter. “You. Go ahead.” 

 

Matt sort of recognizes the young woman who stands up next, has some sort of memory of her interning with The Post at some point. “Was there anything that prompted this announcement?”

 

Gabe opens his mouth like he’s going to reply, then closes it again, looks down. He clears his throat before speaking. “I thought there maybe might be, you know? But, maybe not. It’s just, a situation, is all.” He shrugs, tries for a smile. Matt thinks most people would fall for it, would think that that’s the regular million-watt Landeskog grin, but it’s only about sixty percent of the way there. “It doesn’t matter, I wanted to do it, so I did.” 

 

The room explodes in noise again as all the reporters clamor to be the next one to ask a question. Matt’s not sure what possesses him to do it, but he raises his hand, too, and when he sees Joe’s eyes flicker over toward him, he leans in front of a reporter to his left. He and Joe make eye contact for a second before Joe nods, and the room goes mostly quiet again. 

 

“My question is a follow up, actually,” Matt starts, feeling like his voice is shaking a little. “To, uh.” He looks over at the other reporter again for a second before remembering that he’d definitely made faces back and forth with her during at least one story pitch meeting. “Uh, Hailey’s question.” 

 

When he’d first started talking, Gabe had been looking down again, but as soon as he’d spoken, Gabe had looked up, found him across the room. It’s harder, now, trying to hold eye contact with him as he keeps going. When Joe realizes Gabe isn’t going to say anything, he sighs, says, “Yeah, go ahead.” 

 

“So, my question, um.” Matt swallows, shifts his weight for a second before just going ahead. “Is there any chance that that changes?” 

 

Gabe just looks at him. “What do you mean?” 

 

“You said,” Matt says, looks down at his notes before remembering he’d been too shell-shocked the whole time to write a single thing down. “You said that there might have been something to prompt your announcement, but that there might not be something, too. Is there any chance that it changes back to, being something?” 

 

“I think that depends,” Gabe replies. “I mean, it’s not all up to me.” 

 

“Sure,” Matt agrees. “But. If the situation, wanted it to happen?” 

 

Gabe tilts his head. “If the situation wanted it to happen.” 

 

“Yeah,” Matt confirms. “The situation was maybe being kind of stupid about this. The situation was really worried about, you know. Hockey stuff.” 

 

“The situation worries about most things,” Gabe points out, catching on to what Matt’s trying to say, Matt hopes. “Like, every single thing.” 

 

“Beside the point,” Matt says. “Anyway -- the situation knows that that was kind of a dumb worry. You kind of just do whatever you want to do, anyway.” Gabe nods vehemently. “But, um. If the situation is aware of all that, do you think, there’s still a chance to --” 

 

“Oh my God, this is a professional press conference,” Joe says, as Gabe beams, and there it is, that one hundred percent smile that makes Matt feel warm all over. “Are you done yet.” 

 

“Definitely still a chance,” Gabe cuts in, and Matt knows his smile matches Gabe’s in intensity, if not in actual, literal perfection. 

 

“Yeah, I’m done,” Matt says. 

 

“Me too,” Gabe agrees, stands up. “You all can direct any more questions to...Joe, I guess?”

 

“No,” Joe says, loudly. “No, we’re going to have -- just -- no, please file out in an orderly fashion. This is a fire hazard.” 

 

Matt totally ignores that request and pushes against the crowd, finally coming up to the table and putting both his hands down, leaning in just a little. Gabe is giving him that one hundred percent happy smile, and Matt doesn’t think he could ever ask for anything more. 

 

“Dear God, you two are too much,” Joe mutters. “I’m going to go, because I have a real job to be doing.” 

 

“That’s alright, thanks for coming,” Gabe says, without even sparing a glance Joe’s way. Matt feels kind of hot all over. 

 

Joe’s the last one out, and then it’s just Matt and Gabe, grinning at each other like idiots. This better not be how Matt’s life is all the time now, because his face will literally turn numb and then what will happen. 

 

“I want you to know that I got a text at 8:04 from Peter congratulating me, which kind of feels like a well meaning text from my dad, but I want to burn my phone,” Gabe says, and Matt can’t help it; he claps.

 

“Wait, should we congratulate them? I feel like we’re being self centered,” he says. 

 

Gabe makes a face. “Are you serious? I’m about to make out with you and all you can think about is your parent trap plan?” 

 

“It’s really important, though,” Matt whines, and Gabe just shakes his head, that fond smile back already, and he stands up. It doesn’t really matter that the narrow table is between them, because at least then when Gabe walks around it -- having to let go of Matt’s hand for a second, which feels a little too long -- he can sit down on it, which, thanks, and Matt’s not going to drop operation parent trap, because it is important, but. Right now, he’s got Gabe smiling against his mouth, and this is for real, and that’s all he needs, really.


End file.
